One Small Mistake
by Tha Kalligrapha
Summary: Sonic confronts an old friend during a rescue mission gone awry inside Robotropolis.


One Small Mistake

Sonic the Hedgehog characters, names, and all related indicia  
are registered trademarks and © Sega Enterprises, Ltd.

* * *

"Can you see it, Sonic?" Sally Alicia Acorn's voice was a comfort to hear, even draped in the shadows of a dank corridor deep in the heart of Robotropolis. She pointed to something off in the distance, her outstretched finger steadily guiding my gaze beyond the SWAT Bot-infested hallway, towards a massive drainage pipe located near the ceiling.

I nodded, holding my tongue as a towering, red-eyed sentry marched heavily past our position. Antoine's fingernails dug sharply into my shoulders; he was trembling.

"I'll distract them," I murmured once the coast had cleared. "You two make a break for it."

Sally's expression hardened. Even in moments of great peril, she considered me a thrill-seeker, a loose cannon, an anarchist. But my true intentions were much simpler.

"It's for your own protection," I demanded, eyeing her with staunch assurance.

"Fine," she grunted, eliciting a low, fearful whimper from Antoine. "What's the plan?"

My eyes flitted back and forth between them. "We go on the count of three. I'll try to hold them off for as long as I can, but you two are gonna have to juice." I allowed my stare to linger on Antoine's pallid, apprehensive features for a second longer, hoping to inspire some small measure of courage within the gutless coyote; he would need every ounce of it he could get his paws on.

"J—juice?" he repeated shakily, clearly on-edge.

Taking initiative, I sighed and calmly patted him on the back. "Just chill, Ant," I reasoned. "Don't do anything stupid and you'll be fine."

Unfortunately, this suggestion only seemed to heighten his state of unrest. Apparently, he did not believe himself to be in control of his own stupidity.

"_Sonic,"_ Sally chided, her voice a hushed yet cutting whisper, commanding my attention. The adamant glimmer in her eyes said it all: We didn't have time to coddle him. There were more important issues to be resolved.

I shook my head affirmatively, turning back towards the dimly-lit corridor, the rust-laden walls, the faded, copper-streaked floors, accented with countless jagged notches from the lumbering footfalls of a thousand statuesque SWAT Bots.

"You guys ready?"

"Right behind you, Sonic." Sally spoke for both of them.

"Then let's do it to it."

Three seconds later, my scarlet sneakers hit the ground sliding, my fingertips skating across the floor to steady myself. Four SWAT Bots patrolling down the hallway, alarmed by my sudden appearance, wheeled around on their metallic heels, glinting infrared vision centering fiercely on my position. I threw an expectant glance over my shoulder, ensuring that Antoine and the Princess had followed my lead. Sure enough, they were off, dashing hurriedly towards the drainage pipe.

The SWAT Bots regarded them with complete indifference; I, the hated hedgehog, remained their top priority.

Scorching lead ricocheted off the ground where I stood, but I had already left my feet, cleaving through the air with balletic agility, my body curling into a tight, razor-edged bullet, streaking towards them. The first 'bot buckled and folded as I careened directly into its round, dome-shaped head, my blue quills slashing through bolts and exposed wiring, sending huge droplets of inky-black oil raining to the floor in thick, gruesome spurts. I repelled away, narrowly missing the second one, the soles of my shoes skidding across the slippery floor as I came to an unbalanced landing, my green eyes searching actively for Sally and Antoine: They were still clambering up the ladder.

I came to my senses just in time, ducking below the nearest SWAT Bot's desperate swipe for my head and rolling sharply to one side. My quills quivered as I darted between the great, unfeeling machine's rigid, metallic legs and it, too, toppled helplessly to the ground, flailing its barrel-like arms in vain as it bled out slowly.

The two surviving 'bots charged in unison. Again, I leapt into the air, dodging their massive, groping hands as I soared by in a graceful, sweeping arc, my fingertips closing around the leftmost robot's bulbous head, wrenching it from its shoulders as I began my swift descent. Electricity coursed through the severed wires, but the durable rubber lining inside my gloves spared me the painful jolt. Whirling around on my toes the instant they touched the ground, I cocked back and flung the useless, tin-can head directly into the jagged spine of the lone remaining SWAT Bot with all the force that I could muster.

The shrill, reverberating squeal of metal grinding against metal filled the air. A single glowing spark drifted featherlike to the floor, igniting the oil, causing great orange flames to spring up all around the bewildered machine, charring and shorting its intricate yet fragile circuitry. Shielding myself from the blistering heat with both hands, I peered tensely between my fingers like a child staring through slats in a fence and backed away gingerly. The SWAT Bot's gleaming red eyes flickered for a moment, dimmed, and then went black, all light extinguished.

Distancing myself from the stagnant flames as the robot's empty, functionless body collided stiffly with the brazen floor, I drew a hand to the tiny wireless receiver in my pointed ear, flinching uncomfortably as it burst to life immediately upon contact, producing a wall of grating, furious white noise.

"Sal, are you there?" My voice echoed dissonantly in the now-vacant corridor, impelling me to turn and glance around uneasily.

Seconds later, there was a blunt crackle and a calmed response. "Right here, Sonic." She was breathing heavily, though her voice sounded even and fairly well-composed. "'Twan and I are fine. What about you?"

"Not bad. Nothin' I couldn't handle." My eyes scanned surreptitiously up and down the dimly-lit corridor: The fire, confided to its small patch of bubbling crude oil, had all but faded and died, emitting a thick stream of dense black smoke in the place it had once stood. "Where should we meet up?"

"Rotor's not far off, according to Nicole," the Princess replied solemnly.

I cringed at the mention of his name. The very idea of Rotor suffering—trapped in a world of torment and anguish somewhere unseen, deep in the bowels of Robotropolis—sent a terrible shiver scurrying up my spine.

"We'll meet you in the foyer just below the fourth level," Sally murmured intensely, her voice a dull whisper, dragging me back to reality.

Lowering my cupped hand, I agreed in as few words as possible and immediately set off down the hallway, traipsing through the haze of gritty, obsidian smoke, my eyelids drawn to slits.

It had been three weeks since Rotor's capture, and only a few hours since Nicole, Sally's portable sentient computer, had succeeded in tracking his location through Robotropolis' vast database, very much alive and, astoundingly, not yet roboticized. In abducting Rotor, Dr. Robotnik had hit the proverbial jackpot. As innocent, humble, and good-natured as the multi-talented walrus may have been, he was also, universally, the least challenging of all the core Freedom Fighters to crack, being prone to erratic fits of panic when confronted with stress and adversity. It was not difficult to imagine him relinquishing the hidden site of Knothole Village simply as a means to end his suffering, and who but the least empathetic could truly blame him? Thankfully, thus far, Rotor had apparently done quite well for himself: He was still alive, meaning that he at least remained of some service to Dr. Robotnik. We could only hope this also meant that he had not yet broken down and succumbed in the face of torture.

Nevertheless, it was this fear, this nagging, inescapable dread that Robotnik might have finally inherited the means to gain the upper hand in our struggle, coupled with concern over the life and well-being of my friend, which spurred me to continue on, pressing tirelessly through the blinding trails of dingy smoke, setting a course for the fourth floor, Sally's words still fresh in mind: _"Rotor's not far off…"_

Unfortunately, nothing ever went according to plan.

Without warning, I was wrenched forward and struck directly in the sternum by what felt like a derailed steam engine—a ferocious, unstoppable force—sending my body lurching violently through the smoke-filled air, landing in a crumpled heap on the ground some twenty feet away, gagging and clutching my chest in pain. I glanced up just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of the pitiless black-and-red-eyes glowering over me, the shiny blue quills, the features not unlike my own.

Sir Charles Hedgehog—to me, Uncle Chuck—moved with more speed than even I could command. Mere seconds after batting me to the floor, he stood heatedly at my side, his imposing figure towering over me, his appearance robotic enough to revile while still Mobian enough to value, still recognizable enough to love. At that moment, I despised Robotnik with a fervor more intense than ever before. What little family I had left, what little remained of my youth, he had turned against me, challenging me to destroy it myself, presuming that I never could, _knowing_ that I never would.

Jagged blades, serrated and glimmering, emerged from my uncle's powerful, tube-like arms, producing a fierce metallic shriek which resonated throughout the cavernous, smoke-filled hallway. I rolled aside, leaping to my feet as his forearms slashed vigorously at the ground, nearly shearing off my quills like sheep's wool.

"Uncle Chuck!" I cried hopelessly. I did not wish to hurt him, but getting through to him—severing the Doctor's brutal stranglehold on his delicate mind—seemed an even less likely prospect.

My uncle retaliated with a beastly snarl, all charm, humor, and intellect drained from his vapid disposition, obscured behind the impenetrable metallic shell which encaged him. In a flash, he had barreled into me a second time, blades poised for the strike, nicking my stomach, remorselessly spilling the blood of his own nephew.

Together we tumbled through a darkened passageway, bounded down an empty stairwell, and collapsed in a jumbled pile at the narrow landing, clenching at each others' wrists: Predator and prey locked in a frenzied struggle for survival. His savage red eyes burned mere inches from mine, vacant of all emotion beyond pure, seething aggression and inexplicable hatred. He no longer recognized me. To him, I was but a dull, faceless enemy, something to be destroyed, a trophy for his master to revere.

Bracing my foot against his hollow abdomen, I heaved him off of me, again dodging to the side as his spiked arm descended furiously upon the empty ground where my head had lain. I scrambled away from him, breathing heavily, giant steel crates and other obstacles seemingly rushing to block my path, as if determined to slow me up.

We had stumbled into a dark utility room, the ceiling low and imposing. Hundreds of drooping, vine-like electrical wires hung to the floor in great, snaking, U-shaped patterns, emitting a low, reproachful hum, cautioning me to maintain my distance. Completely unabashed, my uncle hurtled recklessly towards me, nearly toppling straight into the mess of deadly cables himself. At the very last second, I darted out of the way, colliding with a massive silver crate and plummeting to the ground, the force of my weight yanking free several loose wires, producing an eruption of yellow sparks which momentarily illuminated the entire room.

A bloodthirsty growl, devoid of all independent thought, escaped my uncle's tiny slit of a mouth, revealing the tangled web of gold-and-green circuitry inside, the complex aluminum joints, the whirring plastic gears, the complete absence of flesh and blood. He was closing in on me, arms lowered, blades quivering. With a jolt, I clambered frantically to my feet and began to back away, weaving carefully between the fallen wires, wary of every step. My eyes searched desperately for any lingering means of escape, but neither one had yet adjusted to the darkness and remained wholly oblivious to my peril.

My back tightened as I crumpled against the wall, boxed in, nowhere left to run. There was a vibrant flash of light as my uncle raised his right arm, razor edges outstretched, and plunged the blade directly into my left shoulder. I inhaled sharply. Suddenly there was only one reasonable course of action.

With my free hand, I groped for the sagging wire near my head, wrenching it from the lowered ceiling, and in one swooping motion, thrust the broken end forcefully into my uncle's neck. Instantly I could feel the electricity coursing through his body, streaming through the blade lodged firmly in my arm, springing from steel to skin, and finally surging through my own bloodstream. It was as if my insides had burst into flame. My heart hammered against my ribcage; my mind raced; my limbs went stiff; and then my grip slackened and everything ground to a screeching halt.

Sweat poured down my face. My uncle's cold, emotionless stare went blank. He keeled over, the needle-like blade exiting my shoulder the same way as it had gone in. I closed my eyes, silence bearing down upon me. When I reopened them, I was alone, surrounded by darkness, only the remains of my dead uncle lying inertly at my feet.

* * *

Simon Miller - 2007


End file.
